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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22971709">tougher than the rest</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald'>gothyringwald</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, Healing, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Sexual Content, i think it's mild anyway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:41:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22971709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting out of the hospital, Billy finds himself torn between listlessness and restlessness: he doesn’t want to do anything but he’s sick of having nothing to do.</p><p>When he fixes a chair one day, he finds he has a knack for it and takes up woodwork to pass the time.</p><p>Between the carpentry, Max worrying over him and running into Steve, Billy has plenty to occupy his days, now. But he soon learns that he has more to fix than furniture.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>harringrove for Australia</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tougher than the rest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buildyourwalls/gifts">Buildyourwalls</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For buildyourwalls - I really hope you like this! &lt;333</p><p>Thanks to lazybaker/granpappy-winchester for helping me with some of the early development and to socknonny for looking this over for me! You’re both champs &lt;3<br/>As this is post S3, Billy is over 18</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Billy doesn’t know what day it is.</p><p>The tiniest hint of sunlight filters through his dark, drawn curtains, so at least he knows it’s daytime. Slanted shadows fall across his bed, bands of light and dark across his thighs and stomach. He’s torn between listlessness and restlessness: he doesn’t want to move, but he’s sick of being still.</p><p>He had enough of <i>still</i> in the hospital. </p><p>Lying there for days on end with nothing to do but being poked and prodded until he checked himself out—ran away—to go home where…there is nothing to do. At least he’s left alone here. Mostly.</p><p>His door creaks open and he grits his teeth. Without looking, he says, ‘What do you want, Maxine?’</p><p>Max doesn’t ask how he knew it was her, just eases the door shut, and crosses to stand by his bed. ‘It’s 1pm,’ she says.</p><p>‘You can tell the time,’ Billy says, turning his head slightly to glare up at her, ‘congratulations.’</p><p>Max rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. ‘Are you going to stay in here all day again?’</p><p>‘Maybe.’</p><p>‘It’s a nice day,’ she tries.</p><p>‘It’s November in Indiana’—Billy shifts, pulling an empty pack of cigarettes out from under him and throwing it to the end of his bed—‘there’s no such thing.’</p><p>The bed dips as Max sits, one leg tucked under the other. She plays with the edge of Billy’s quilt, folding it between her fingers. </p><p>Billy fights the urge to move away but he can’t stop the flinch when Max’s hand brushes his arm.</p><p>Max tucks her hands under her legs. ‘The arcade is looking for someone to work there.’</p><p>Billy sucks in a deep breath.</p><p>‘Or if you’re not ready for work—’</p><p>Billy shoots her another glare.</p><p>‘—you could get a hobby?’</p><p>‘I don’t need a hobby,’ Billy says, ‘I need you to get the fuck out of my room.’</p><p>‘This is getting pathetic,’ Max says, but there’s no bite to her words. Just pity. That’s all Billy gets these days.</p><p>It rankles and he rolls over, facing away from Max.</p><p>Max sighs and the bed dips again as she gets up, moves away. ‘At least have a shower, or open a window. Your room smells funky.’</p><p>‘Fuck off, Maxine,’ Billy says and then the door shuts and he’s alone.</p><p>His stomach turns but he shuts his eyes tight, hands clenched in his pillow, and tries not to scream.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The next few hours pass in a half-sleeping daze; Billy tosses and turns the whole time, Max’s words playing over in his head. But it’s his dad’s voice, yelling out, that finally pulls him out of bed.<p>Billy learnt very young to stay out of his dad’s way when he was angry, but something perverse draws him out of his room, following the sound of his dad’s voice.</p><p>His dad hasn’t hit him since before—</p><p>He’s come close but then he’ll eye the scars or how Billy favours his right leg and draw back, angrier than before. Billy wonders when he’ll snap.</p><p>He finds his dad in the kitchen, hands clenched at his sides, face twisted with anger. There’s an upturned chair by his feet, missing a leg.</p><p>‘What’s wrong?’ Billy asks, leaning in the doorway.</p><p>His dad looks over, taking in Billy’s appearance. ‘Have you just got up?’ A familiar anger flickers in his eyes.</p><p>Billy thinks maybe this is the moment but the anger fizzles out not long after it sparks and Billy makes a noncommittal noise, face hot. He nods at the chair before his dad can say anything else and asks, ‘What happened to the chair?’</p><p>‘It broke.’</p><p>‘You fixing it?’</p><p>‘Well, I’m not painting a picture,’ his dad snaps.</p><p>Billy flushes. He takes half a step back but, before he realises what he’s doing, he steps forward and says, ‘I can do it.’</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>‘I can fix it?’ Billy licks his lips.</p><p>‘Think you can do a better job than your old man?’ Billy’s dad waves the screwdriver he’s holding in Billy’s direction. ‘I was doing this before you were born.’</p><p>Billy swallows. ‘I know, I—’ <i>I need something to do</i>. He shakes his head. ‘I just meant…you’ve probably got better things to do than fix the chair.’</p><p>His dad’s eyes narrow but he says, ‘Fine, knock yourself out,’ and throws the screwdriver to the floor. He grabs a can of beer from the fridge, then shoulders past Billy in silence.</p><p>Tools surround the broken chair, spilling out of Billy’s dad’s toolbox. Billy chews his thumbnail and stares down at them. It’s been a while since shop but he was good at it. Fixing the chair should be a piece of fucking cake.</p><p>He kneels down—ignoring the flare of pain in his side—and gets to work.</p><p>It’s easy to get lost in the task, in the feel of using his hands, and for the first time in longer than he can remember his mind goes blank. All that he thinks about is the chair, the wood in his palms, the smell of the glue. And beneath it all, there is a calm static hum.</p><p>It isn’t long before he’s finished and he pushes to his feet. His knees crack and his thighs burn. He leaves the chair upturned, letting the glue dry, then tidies everything away. </p><p>At dinner, Susan says, ‘The chair isn’t wobbling.’ She looks at Neil. ‘Did you fix it?’</p><p>‘Billy did,’ his dad says, sawing into his steak. ‘Finally made himself useful.’</p><p>‘Well, thank you, sweetie,’ Susan says, looking at Billy now. ‘You did a really good job.’</p><p>Billy shrugs one shoulder, face warm, and says, ‘It’s fine.’</p><p>His dad looks over at him and says, ‘Yeah, let’s see if it lasts,’ and Billy doesn’t know if he means the chair or Billy being useful.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>It’s easy, after the chair, to find things around the house that need fixing. Billy isn’t even looking—it’s not like he wants to be a fucking handyman or anything—but he’s at home most of the time and things just find him.<p>There’s the kitchen cabinets and the third step on the back porch. He even makes a cutting board when Susan mentions hers is getting old and worn out.</p><p>One night, watching TV, he picks up one of the scraps of wood and starts carving. </p><p>If he stopped to think about how he’s whittling like an old man he’d be fucking embarrassed, but it’s better than lying in bed all day feeling sorry for himself. </p><p>Because his dad was right: he’s been useless since he got out of the hospital. But he’s not, anymore, and his dad doesn’t seem so irritated by him always being around, even if he curses Billy for leaving tools in his way sometimes.</p><p>It feels good, having something to do.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy exits the hardware store with a huge box of tools and other shit. He’d noticed the kitchen table was a bit wonky this morning and that the front porch could do with some work, too. And his dad is starting to get fed up with Billy constantly raiding his tool box, so he figured it was time to get his own.<p>The spirit level balanced on top of the pile starts to slide and Billy won’t be able to catch it without letting the box drop. He’ll have to ask someone for help and he hates that but it never falls.</p><p>‘Here you go,’ someone says, tucking the spirit level safely into the box.</p><p>Billy shifts the weight of the box, so he can look past it. His stomach swoops when he locks eyes with Steve Harrington.</p><p>‘Oh, hey,’ Steve says, eyes a little wide, but lips quirked, ‘I thought it was you.’</p><p>Billy glares.</p><p>‘Your, um, boots…’ Steve clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. ‘You need a hand with that?’ He nods to the box, already reaching out.</p><p>Billy jerks it to the side, away from Steve. The speed square wobbles. ‘I can handle it.’</p><p>‘Uh, sure,’ Steve says, cheeks flushed, ‘but that’s a lot of stuff in one box. Looks heavy.’</p><p>‘I’m not an invalid.’</p><p>Steve’s brows shoot up. ‘I know, but your triangle is gonna fall,’ he says.</p><p>Billy cuts his gaze back to the box, just in time to see the speed square sliding from the top of the pile. It falls to the ground with a loud clatter. ‘It’s a square, not a triangle,’ Billy says.</p><p>‘But it’s—’</p><p> Billy shoves the box into Steve’s chest and bends to pick the square up. His side twinges but he shoves the pain down.</p><p>‘Man, did you buy half the store?’ Steve says, sounding a little breathless. His shirt pulls tight over his biceps as he shifts the box.</p><p>Billy straightens up and says, ‘Give it back.’</p><p>‘I don’t mind.’</p><p>‘Just give it back, Harrington.’</p><p>‘We can divide it up,’ Steve says, ‘if you get another box.’</p><p>Billy grits his teeth. ‘Whatever,’ he says, and goes back inside for another box. He comes back out and he and Steve divide everything up on the sidewalk.</p><p>They both reach for a hammer at the same time, hands brushing, sparks skittering up Billy’s arm. He jerks back and, for a moment, Steve looks disappointed but Billy probably imagined it. </p><p>They aren’t— </p><p>They were never—</p><p>‘So, where are you parked?’ Steve says, hefting his box.</p><p>‘I’m not.’</p><p>‘You’re not walking home?’</p><p>‘Well, I’m not flying.’</p><p>Steve presses his lips together then he jerks his head across the road. ‘I’m parked at the video store, I’ll give you a ride.’ He doesn’t give Billy a chance to respond, just makes off across the road with half of Billy’s shit, so Billy has no choice but to follow.</p><p>Irritation sparks behind Billy’s ribs. He increases his strides until he’s ahead of Steve, making it to the car moments before him. </p><p>Steve pops the trunk and they put Billy’s stuff inside.</p><p>‘You building something?’ Steve asks poking at the tools.</p><p>‘Yeah, looks like it,’ Billy says. It’s the most he’s talked to Steve since the beginning of summer. But they didn’t exactly do a lot of talking back then. Billy swallows thickly, heat prickling under his jaw. </p><p>Steve is still talking but Billy can’t hear him, can only watch his mouth move.</p><p>‘Huh?’</p><p>‘Sounds like fun,’ Steve repeats, lips quirked. His eyes are dark and fucking sparkling.</p><p>Something rises up behind Billy’s ribs—warm and bright—but he pushes it down and steps back. He goes around to the passenger side and gets in.</p><p>The car smells like fake pine and there’s a sweater in the passenger footwell. Billy picks it up. Looks like a chick’s. ‘Your taste in fashion has changed,’ he says.</p><p>Steve blinks over at him. ‘Oh, that’s Robin’s,’ he says. ‘You can put it in the back.’</p><p>Billy balls it up and throws it, but it lands softly and Billy grits his teeth. He turns back, sprawling in his seat, though his thigh protests the angle of his legs. ‘She’s the chick you work with,’ he says, and it’s not really a question. </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Steve says, backing out and pulling onto the road.</p><p>A beat, two, and then, ‘You sticking around Hawkins for her?’ Billy doesn’t know why he asks. He doesn’t care and he doesn’t want to talk. </p><p>‘Uh, yeah, I guess,’ Steve says. He takes the next turn a little faster than Billy had expected.</p><p>But then Billy knows better than anyone that Steve can drive recklessly when he wants to. When he needs to. Billy’s chest tightens, the feeling crawling up his throat. He balls his hands into fists, short nails digging into his palms, and clenches his jaw.</p><p>Steve is still talking about Robin, saying, ‘We’re going to get an apartment together when she goes to college. She’s really smart so she could get in wherever, but she wants to go to film school in California.’</p><p>‘Right,’ Billy says. His stomach is churning. He leans over and turns the radio on, cutting off any further conversation. It’s some shitty pop station, so he fiddles with the dial until something vaguely resembling decent music blasts through Steve’s speakers.</p><p>Steve glances over, brow furrowed, but he doesn’t say anything. They drive the rest of the way to Cherry Road with the roaring music the only sound between them.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy throws the door open before the car has even stopped moving. He slams it shut and walks around to the trunk.<p>The ignition cuts and the driver’s side door opens and closes. ‘Need a hand taking it in?’ Steve asks, twirling his keys around his finger, then catching them in his palm.</p><p>‘Nope.’</p><p>‘I don’t mind.’ </p><p>Billy leans one hip on the car and turns to look at Steve. He crosses his arms over his chest. ‘You trying to get some kind of merit badge?’</p><p>‘Sure,’ Steve says. He tilts his head. ‘Were you a scout?’</p><p>‘For about two weeks,’ Billy says, then adds, ‘Got kicked out,’ not knowing why he’s telling Steve.</p><p>‘Of course you did,’ Steve says, lips tilted in a crooked grin that makes that warm, bright feeling well up in Billy again.</p><p>It doesn’t make sense that one smile from Steve could make him feel anything. That’s all over, ancient history, and they were never—</p><p>‘So, where do you want it?’ </p><p>Billy makes a small, choked noise. ‘What?’</p><p>‘Your stuff?’</p><p>‘Just…bring it ‘round back,’ Billy says, then picks up one of the boxes, and walks off. His heart is hammering and his hands are clenched tight on the box.</p><p>Steve follows and they dump the boxes on the back porch. ‘So…’ Steve says. He shifts his weight. ‘I’ve never been to your house before.’</p><p>‘I know.’</p><p>‘It’s nice.’</p><p>‘It’s fine.’</p><p>‘Is anyone else at home?’</p><p>‘Probably not.’</p><p>Steve presses his lips together and looks off to the side.</p><p>A car drives by out front, a breeze picks up a swirl of leaves in the yard. Billy leans one hand on the railing. He wonders if Steve is expecting to be invited in, if he wants to be. But Billy can’t have, doesn’t want, Steve in his house, so he says, ‘I’ve got things to do.’</p><p>‘Right,’ Steve says, ‘of course.’ He takes a step back, pauses. ‘I’ll see you ‘round?’</p><p>‘Probably.’</p><p>‘OK,’ Steve says, then heads off back around the house.</p><p>Billy watches him walk away, then takes his things inside. The house is still and quiet and Billy wants to scream.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy’s collecting the mail when Mrs Silverman from across the road waves him down. His jaw tightens but he fixes a grin onto his face and waits as she rushes over.<p>‘Your mom told me you’ve been quite the handyman, lately,’ she says.</p><p>‘Stepmom,’ Billy mutters, but when Mrs Silverman frowns he says, ‘Sure have.’ He leans one arm on the mailbox and says, ‘Why? You’ve got something you need fixing?’ and adds a wink for good measure.</p><p>She bats a hand at him but she says, ‘Well—’</p><p>Billy spends the rest of the week working on her cabinets, choking down sour lemonade, and pretending he’s listening to her yammer on.</p><p>But she pays him and word soon gets around Cherry Road that Billy’s doing odd jobs.</p><p>‘You can’t do odd jobs for the neighbours forever,’ his dad says, when he comes back one evening covered in sawdust.</p><p>‘I know.’</p><p>‘There’s a job at the construction site,’ his dad says. </p><p>Billy chews on his thumbnail. ‘I’ll think about it.’</p><p>His dad’s nostrils flare but then he shakes his head. ‘Don’t take too long thinking about it,’ he says, then leaves Billy to have a shower.</p><p>His dad’s right. Soon the neighbours won’t have any work for him and he’ll have to find something else. But for now he’s got the work and he’s got scraps to carve stupid little trinkets and it’s enough.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>And then the odd jobs run out and Billy’s right back where he started.<div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The phone rings and rings and rings. It rings six times before Billy remembers it’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week so he’s the only one at home. He grumbles and yanks his phone from the cradle.<p>‘Yeah?’ he says into the handset.</p><p>‘Billy?’</p><p>Billy fumbles for the pack of cigarettes on his bedside table, shakes the last one out, lights it. ‘Yep.’</p><p>‘It’s Steve.’</p><p>Billy’s pulse ticks, but he doesn’t say anything.</p><p>‘Harrington.’</p><p>Billy snorts. ‘What do you want?’</p><p>‘Are you always this friendly?’</p><p>‘You caught me on a good day.’ Billy blows out smoke, searches for his ashtray. ‘So, what do you want?’</p><p>‘You’ve been fixing things, right?’ There’s rustling on the other end of the line. ‘Like, um, doing carpentry?’</p><p>‘A bit.’ Billy ashes his cigarette. ‘Why?’</p><p>‘Well, my mom’s favourite chair broke, so I thought you could fix it.’ Silence and then, ‘I’d pay you.’</p><p>‘Yeah, OK,’ Billy says, blowing out a final plume of smoke and crushing his cigarette, ‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ and then he hangs up.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy rings Steve’s doorbell ninety minutes after the phone call. His calves are burning because he had to ride his old pushbike, like he’s a fucking kid again, but it’s a good burn. He’s gotten too out of shape.<p>The door swings open and Steve says, ‘Hey,’ and then, ‘You took longer than you said.’</p><p>Billy shrugs. ‘Traffic,’ he says, complete bullshit. ‘So, where’s this chair?’</p><p>‘In the dining room,’ Steve says, standing aside to let Billy in.</p><p>They go through the entrance hall and into the dining room. It’s fucking huge.</p><p>Billy sets his toolbox down and looks at the chair. ‘This is your mom’s favourite chair?’</p><p>‘Uh, yep.’ Steve is standing close enough that Billy can feel warmth between them.</p><p>Billy flexes his hands and looks over at Steve. ‘This chair that looks like all your other chairs.’ He nods to the other chairs around the teak dining table. They’re nice chairs, sure, but they’re all the same.</p><p>Steve presses his lips together and gives a little shrug.</p><p>Annoyance bubbles up in Billy’s chest but he pushes it aside. If Steve wants to pay him to fix some stupid dining room chair, he’ll fix it. He crouches down, runs his finger along the break in the leg, and the annoyance flares into anger. ‘You broke this.’ He looks up. ‘On purpose.’</p><p>‘What, no, I didn’t,’ Steve says.</p><p>Billy tilts to his feet. ‘You always were a shitty liar, Harrington,’ he says, staring Steve down. ‘Why’d you fucking break the chair?’</p><p>‘I didn’t—’ Steve starts, then he sighs. ‘Max said you fixed everything at your place and had run out of, you know, odd jobs.’</p><p>It hits Billy like a sucker punch. Steve did this for Max. ‘Fucking little busybody,’ Billy murmurs, picking up his toolbox and turning on his heel. His cheeks are burning and his scalp prickles.</p><p>‘Hey, wait,’ Steve says, footsteps following Billy’s, ‘what about the chair?’</p><p>Billy wheels around. ‘You broke it, you can fix it.’</p><p>‘I never took shop,’ Steve says.</p><p>‘Yeah, I bet King Steve didn’t want to get his hands dirty, huh?’ It’s a stupid thing to say, Billy knows that, but he can’t stop himself.</p><p>Steve’s eyes narrow. ‘My dad didn’t think—’ He huffs. ‘Whatever. Can you fix the chair.’ He sucks in a breath. ‘Please?’</p><p>‘I don’t need your pity,’ Billy says, ‘or your charity.’</p><p>‘I just wanted to do Max a favour.’ Steve crosses his arms over his stomach, cheeks pink, and he’s not looking at Billy. ‘And I wanted—’</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>Steve shakes his head. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’</p><p>Silence rises up, almost suffocating. Part of Billy wants to push, ask Steve what he wanted, but he can’t. His hand tightens on the handle of his toolbox. The silence crawls along his skin and eventually he says, ‘Fine, I’ll fix your stupid chair.’ He points a finger at Steve. ‘But you’re still paying me.’</p><p>Steve startles. ’Yeah, sure, of course. Um, how much?’</p><p>‘A hundred bucks.’</p><p>‘What? That’s—’ Steve pauses, brow furrowed. ‘Is that a lot?’</p><p>Billy can’t stop the laugh that breaks out of him. ‘Fucking rich boy,’ he says, ‘you’ve got no idea, do you?’ When Steve gives a helpless little shrug, Billy says, ‘Just…get me some beer, or something,’ and moves past Steve, back into the dining room.</p><p>Steve hovers the whole time he works and Billy can’t help but think how he’s on his knees with Steve standing above him. It brings back memories Billy has tried so hard to forget.</p><p>‘Sit down, will you?’ Billy snaps.</p><p>Steve huffs but he drags out another chair and sits down. It’s worse, though, because he props one leg up, drawing Billy’s eye exactly where he doesn’t want it to go.</p><p>But the chair is enough of a distraction and, though the work is simple, Billy loses himself in it, until Steve breaks through the static hum in his head, saying, ‘You’re really good at this.’</p><p>Billy grunts, warmth rising to his cheeks, and focusses all his attention on the chair. But it doesn’t take long to finish and, when he does, he pushes himself up and says, ‘The glue has to set for a few hours. Don’t use the chair until then.’</p><p>‘Thanks,’ Steve says, standing as well. </p><p>They’re closer than is comfortable but Billy doesn’t want to be the first one to step back. He doesn’t know why. Something crackles between them and Billy isn’t sure it ever felt like this before. But, then, they were never sober, back then.</p><p>Steve swallows thickly.</p><p>It looks like he’s going to say something and Billy doesn’t want to hear it, so he says, ‘Got any beer?’</p><p>Steve blinks, steps back. ‘Uh, yeah,’ he says, taking another step back, ‘I’ll go get them,’ and then he’s moving away.</p><p>Billy waits a moment then follows him into the kitchen.</p><p>Steve is muttering to himself behind the fridge door. He startles when he slams it shut and comes face to face with Billy. ‘Hey,’ he says, eyes wide. ‘I didn’t hear you.’</p><p>Billy doesn’t say anything but he takes the can of beer Steve thrusts at him, pops it open, and leans back on the counter. The beer is cold and exactly what Billy needs.</p><p>Steve stands across from him, one arm hugged around his stomach. He keeps looking at Billy, and Billy isn’t sure if he thinks Billy isn’t looking too, or if he doesn’t care if he’s caught.</p><p>‘Billy—’</p><p>‘Don’t.’</p><p>Steve looks away. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘I know we never talked about—’</p><p>‘<i>Don’t</i>.’ Billy pushes off of the counter, and closes in on Steve. He’s moving on auto-pilot, needs to make it clear to Steve that they’re not going to talk about this. </p><p>But when he reaches Steve, fists his hands into his shirt, he doesn’t shove him, or growl in his face to <i>shut the fuck up</i>. He presses his mouth to Steve’s, backing him against the fridge, kissing him with an intensity that startles even Billy.</p><p>And Steve kisses back, hands in Billy’s hair, running down his back, pushing under his shirt.</p><p>It’s been so long since Billy’s been kissed at all, let alone like <i>this</i>. They never really used to kiss, before, and when they did it was drunk and sloppy. But this—</p><p>This is—</p><p>Jesus Christ. Billy Hargrove, undone by a kiss.</p><p>And then Steve palms Billy’s dick through his jeans, says, ‘Do you want—’ and Billy nods.</p><p>Steve makes short work of his belt and fly, slides his hand into Billy’s briefs to curl around his cock. It’s so good. </p><p>So fucking <i>good</i>.</p><p>Billy loses himself in the feel of Steve jerking him off, the familiar touch of his hand, the new sensation of his mouth under Billy’s, and then he reaches for Steve’s belt and slips his hand inside Steve’s jeans.</p><p>After, they’re slumped by the kitchen counter, sticky and sweaty and both totally wrecked.</p><p>‘Fuck,’ Steve says, ‘that was better than I remember.’ It’s the first time either of them has acknowledged all the times before out loud. </p><p>It should piss Billy off, or something, but he only hums, feeling lax in a way he hasn’t in so so long. </p><p>Steve’s knee knocks into Billy’s. He glances up, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. ‘Maybe we could do it again sometime.’ He swallows thickly.</p><p>‘Yeah,’ Billy says, tilting his head back, ‘why not?’</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>‘I talked to Jerry at the site, today,’ Billy’s dad says, across the table, ‘you start Monday morning.’<p>A flicker of irritation sparks in Billy but it never catches light. Weird. ‘Cool,’ Billy says, and at the raise of his dad’s brows, adds, ‘Thank you.’</p><p>His dad makes a grumbling noise and says, ‘Just make sure you do a good job and don’t embarrass me.’</p><p>Billy’s hand tightens on his fork. ‘Yes, sir.’</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The phone rings. Billy isn’t alone but he gets to it first. It’s not like he’s been waiting or anything, though. ‘Hey,’ he says.<p>‘Hey,’ Steve says, ‘it’s Steve.’</p><p>‘I know.’</p><p>Steve huffs. ‘My parents aren’t at home.’ He pauses. ‘Do you want to come over?’</p><p>‘Yeah,’ Billy says.</p><p>Billy is at Steve’s door in half an hour and Steve greets him with a smile that makes Billy’s stomach do a slow somersault.</p><p>Billy grins back and pushes Steve inside and kisses him long and hot and deep.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Fooling around with Steve is great. It’s better than the drunken fumbles they had before—though those were pretty damn awesome.<p>But it’s just like the woodwork: a way to pass the time. Nothing more.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>‘Dude, what is this?’ Steve nods to the miniature guillotine set up on Billy’s dresser.<p>It’s the first time Steve’s been over to his house, since they started fooling around. They usually hang out at Steve’s but Billy’s got a day off and no one else is at home.</p><p>‘What does it look like?’ Billy watches Steve from where he’s sprawled on his bed. </p><p>Steve shakes his head. ‘It’s kinda messed up.’</p><p>Billy shrugs. ‘I was bored.’</p><p>Steve huffs, but then he turns to Billy, brow furrowed. ‘Wait, did you <i>make</i> it?’</p><p>‘Yeah.’ Billy hasn’t let anyone see the little things he’s been making, yet.</p><p>‘Wow.’ Steve turns back to the guillotine, runs his finger along the frame, presses it to the blade. ‘Shit, that’s sharp.’</p><p>‘No kidding,’ Billy says, ‘it has to chop heads off.’ He nods to the Barbie lying in the guillotine, waiting for the chop. Steve screws his nose up, but he still looks impressed. Warmth rises up behind Billy’s ribs and he lets it. He pushes himself up, pulling his jeans on, and moves over to Steve. He takes Steve’s hand, sucks his finger into his mouth.</p><p>Steve’s eyes go dark, fixed on Billy’s lips. ‘Does it work?’</p><p>Billy nods. He lets Steve’s finger slide from his mouth. ‘Wanna see?’</p><p>‘OK.’</p><p>Billy pulls the string and the blade goes down and…gets wedged in Barbie’s neck.</p><p>Steve raises a brow. ‘Thought you said it worked.’</p><p>Heat rises to Billy’s face but he says, ‘Barbie’s got a thick neck,’ and pushes down on the blade until Barbie’s head is separated from her neck. </p><p>It rolls away and Steve picks it up. ‘Poor Barbie.’</p><p>‘She deserved it.’</p><p>‘How come?’</p><p>‘She was oppressing all the other Barbies.’</p><p>Steve barks out a laugh. ‘You’re twisted,’ he says, and sets the doll’s head down. He turns his attention to the row of little wooden figurines on Billy’s dresser, behind the guillotine. ‘Did you make <i>all</i> of these?’</p><p>Billy grunts an affirmation. His stomach is doing something weird and annoying and his palms feel damp. It’s so…exposing, having Steve look at all these dumb things he’s made.</p><p>But Steve says, ‘Wow, they’re really cool.’ He picks up a carving of Iron Maiden’s Eddie, running his finger along the grooves almost reverently. ‘I could never do anything like this.’</p><p>‘Pick one,’ Billy blurts, pulse ticking.</p><p>Steve turns to him. ‘What?’</p><p>‘Pick one.’</p><p>‘To keep?’</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>Steve smiles and Billy’s stomach swoops. Fuck. Steve turns back, running his gaze along the figurines. And then he snorts, softly, picking up a carving of a dick and balls. ‘This one,’ he says, running his finger along the shaft with a wink.</p><p>Billy licks his lips and his heart thuds hard. ‘Good choice.’</p><p>‘Mm.’ Steve turns it over in his hands. ‘It’s really detailed.’ His brow furrows. ‘Is this meant to be <i>your</i> dick?’</p><p>‘You <i>know</i> my dick is way bigger than that.’</p><p>‘I don’t know,’ Steve says with a smirk, ‘looks about right to me.’</p><p>Billy narrows his eyes and says, ‘Guess you’d better check again,’ pulling Steve’s hand to his crotch.</p><p>Steve grins and crowds Billy onto the bed. ‘Guess so,’ he says, then yanks Billy’s jeans down and takes Billy into his mouth.</p><p>Billy breathes out, ‘Steve,’ twisting his fingers in Steve’s hair and lets his eyes slide shut.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Later, long after Steve has gone home, and when everyone else is asleep, Billy goes out to the shed. He pulls out some timber and starts building.<p>He doesn’t let himself think about what it means that he’s making a chair, or who he’s making it for, just gets lost in the work. The scent of sawdust, the rough timber becoming smooth under his hands, the sounds of sawing and sandpaper. </p><p>It takes him to that empty place in his mind. He can think about who it’s for when he’s finished.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy’s got one hand fisted in Steve’s sheets, his face half-turned, pressed to Steve’s pillow. It smells like Steve—his sweat, his shampoo—and Billy sucks it in.<p>Sweat slicks Billy’s skin and the stretch of Steve inside of him takes his breath away.</p><p>‘Billy,’ Steve breathes into Billy’s ear. He laces his fingers with Billy’s, thrusting forward, pushing Billy up the bed.</p><p>Billy meets Steve’s thrusts, tilting his hips back. A low moan works its way out of him.</p><p>He’s never let himself want this before and he doesn’t know what it is about Steve that <i>makes</i> him want. Only that he does.</p><p>Steve reaches a hand between Billy and the mattress, curls it around Billy’s cock. ‘You gonna come?’ he says, voice low in Billy’s ear. His hand tightens, thumb pressing right—</p><p>‘Fuck,’ Billy says, and comes over Steve’s hand and the mattress.</p><p>When Steve comes, moments later, Billy <i>feels</i> it, but it's the way Steve moans his name and presses his forehead to Billy's shoulder that makes warmth rush through him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The chair is coming together, taking shape. It’s the first time Billy has made anything this big since school and, back then, he had to make what he was told to. Now, he can make whatever he wants.<p>He doesn’t think about how the stain he chooses matches the desk and dresser in Steve’s room.</p><p>It’s only a chair.</p><p>Billy grits his teeth against a sigh. It’s getting harder to believe it doesn’t mean anything.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>They’re in Steve’s bed. It’s the middle of the day. Neither of them had work and no one else is at home. It’s easy to pretend it could always be like this.<p>A sticky sheen of sweat coats Billy’s skin and he aches all over, but it’s a good ache. He stretches out, only the faintest twinge in his side.</p><p>Beside him, Steve is breathing heavily, eyes hooded, looking as fucked out as Billy feels. It’s a good look on him.</p><p>‘That was the best yet,’ Steve says. ‘I think.’</p><p>Billy snorts but he doesn’t say anything. He shifts a little, a deep ache at the base of his spine, making heat rush through him. He can still <i>feel</i> Steve… </p><p>‘What’s it like in California?’ Steve rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. He reaches out and traces lazy circles on Billy’s hip.</p><p>It’s not the scarred one—the sheets cover his other side—so Billy lets him, even though the soft touch is kind of annoying. ‘You wanna be more specific?’ When Steve only hums, Billy turns his head. ‘Why’d you wanna know?’</p><p>‘Robin was wondering,’ Steve says, ‘for when she moves there for college.’ He shrugs. ‘Well, when we move there.’</p><p>It’s like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Billy’s ears ring. His stomach turns. He’d forgotten about Steve’s plans. Had thought, after everything, Steve wouldn’t still— </p><p>Fuck. He’s stupid. </p><p>He pulls away, rolling until he can swing his legs over the side of the bed.</p><p>‘Hey, are you OK?’ Steve lays a hand on Billy’s shoulder. It’s warm, and heavy. His breath tickles Billy’s skin, lips skimming the side of Billy’s neck.</p><p>Billy shakes him off and stands, grabbing his jeans.</p><p>‘I thought you were hanging out here today?’</p><p>‘You’re fucking unbelievable,’ Billy says, as he hops into his jeans, roots around for his boots.</p><p>‘Wait, what, I don’t—’ The bed creaks as Steve edges forward. ‘What’s going on?’</p><p>One of Billy’s boots is under Steve’s shirt. His pulse is racing and his blood is growing hotter by the second. Where’s his other fucking boot?</p><p>Steve moves over to Billy. ‘Are you OK?’ he repeats, curling a hand around Billy’s wrist. ‘You don’t have to go. My parents won’t be home for ages.’</p><p>Light catches on something—the buckle of Billy’s boot. He pulls it from under the quilt heaped on the floor, grabs his shirt and heads for the door.</p><p>‘Billy, hang on, I wanted to ask you—’</p><p>‘This was a mistake,’ Billy says, not looking at Steve.</p><p>Steve’s breath hitches. ‘What was?’</p><p>‘Starting this again.’ Billy cuts his gaze to Steve. ‘Doing it when we’re sober.’</p><p>The hurt on Steve’s face isn’t anywhere near as satisfying as Billy had thought it would be.</p><p>But Steve is leaving, he’s going to California, and Billy will be stuck here. Without him.</p><p>‘You don’t mean that,’ Steve says. ‘I thought we—’</p><p>‘I mean it,’ Billy says and opens Steve’s door.</p><p>‘Billy.’</p><p>There’s a moment, so brief, where Billy pauses and considers staying. But Steve is <i>leaving</i> and Billy doesn’t know what he’ll do if he stays today and so he walks away.</p><p>Steve doesn’t follow.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The chair splinters apart under the force of the sledgehammer as Billy brings it down again and again and again. He does it until it’s just a pile of broken wood and then he kicks the pieces across his room.<p>But it doesn’t ease the churning inside him. He throws the hammer down. ‘Fuck!’</p><p>His door swings open.</p><p>Max stands in the door, eyes wide. ‘What are you doing?’</p><p>‘Get lost, Maxine.’</p><p>‘Is that the chair you were making?’ She looks at the pieces of wood littering Billy’s floor. ‘But it looked really good.’</p><p>‘It was a piece of shit.’ Billy’s breaths are coming fast. ‘And I don’t need it.’</p><p>‘I thought it was for Steve.’</p><p>‘How did you—’ Billy swallows. ‘I told you to get lost, so get lost.’ He points a finger at Max. ‘Keep out of my room and out of my business. If you’d never told Steve to break that chair in the first place…’ </p><p>‘What?’ Max’s face is scrunched in confusion. ‘I didn’t tell Steve to break anything. I just asked if anyone had anything that needed to be fixed.’ She shrugs. ‘If Steve broke something, it was his idea.’</p><p>The words stun Billy. Why would Steve break something just so Billy could fix it, if it wasn’t Max’s idea? Billy can guess. No, more than guess. But he looks at Max says, ‘Get out of my room.’</p><p>‘But—’</p><p>‘Get out, Maxine!’</p><p>Max’s eyes are glassy and her cheeks are flushed. ‘You’re a jerk,’ she says and turns on her heel, storming out of the room.</p><p>The door slams shut so hard it judders the frame and the wall.</p><p>Billy stays in his room the rest of the day, not even coming out for dinner. He’s got no appetite and he doesn’t want to see Max, anyway.</p><p>Fucking Max, pushing her nose in where it doesn’t belong. He never would have gone to Steve’s that first time if it wasn’t for her, even if Steve went rogue and broke the chair on his own.</p><p>And fucking Steve Harrington.</p><p>Billy pulls his pillow over his head and bites into it. Hard.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy misses three days of work and his dad finally snaps.<p>It’s not like Billy’s surprised and there’s a weird kind of relief in not waiting, anymore.</p><p>After, his dad looks almost guilty. It’s a new look for him. Billy wonders if the waiting will start again.</p><p>Billy goes back to work the next day. No one says anything about the bruise shadowing his jaw, but the work is a good distraction.</p><p>And he doesn’t skip another day.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>There’s a scrap of wood from the broken chair hiding under Billy’s jacket. The rest of the scraps are out in the shed, because Billy’s dad had caught him taking them out to the trash and told him not to be so wasteful. So he’d carted the box to the shed and left them in a corner.<p>He turns the scrap over in his hand and raises his arm to throw it in his waste basket. But he stops. He looks at the scrap again and then grabs a pocket knife and settles on his bed.</p><p>Priest is blasting from his boombox and Billy starts carving.</p><p>The wood comes away in chunks and curls, falling to Billy’s floor as he cuts into it. Static fills his head and he lets his hands do the thinking.</p><p>A shape soon emerges but it’s rough so he gets some sandpaper, smooths the edges. When he’s done he sets it on his bed and sighs.</p><p>It’s a fucking skateboard. </p><p>He scrubs a hand over his face. He could just stick it with the other shit he’s made or he could throw it away. But he knows that’s not what he has to do.</p><p>Fucking hell.</p><p>He pushes to his feet, the skateboard curled safely into his palm, and goes to Max’s door.</p><p>It opens a minute or so after he knocks.</p><p>‘What do you want?’ Max asks. The first words she’s said to him since he yelled at her.</p><p>‘Sorry, am I interrupting your busy social life?’ Billy deadpans.</p><p>Max glares.</p><p>Billy huffs and shifts his weight. Fuck it. He thrusts out his hand, unfurling his fist. The skateboard is laying flat in his palm. </p><p>‘What’s that?’</p><p>‘What’s it look like?’ Billy gives his hand a little shake.</p><p>Max rolls her eyes but she picks the skateboard up. She turns it over, running her finger over the ‘B’ engraved on the underside, then traces the letters spelling ‘MAD MAX’ on the top of the deck. ‘Is this for me?’</p><p>‘No, it’s for the other Max who lives here.’</p><p>‘Billy.’</p><p>‘Yeah, it’s for you.’ Billy bites his thumbnail. </p><p>‘Why?’ When Billy stays silent, she says, ‘Is this meant to be an apology?’</p><p>‘Look, if you don’t want it—’</p><p>Max holds it out of Billy’s reach. ‘No, I want it.’ The hint of a smile tilts her lips as she looks down at the tiny skateboard again. ‘It’s cool, thank you.’</p><p>‘Whatever.’</p><p>Max bites her lip. ‘You know I was only trying to help.’</p><p>‘I don’t need your help.’</p><p>‘Yes, you do.’</p><p>‘OK, fine, I don’t want it!’</p><p>Max’s cheeks flush. ‘I thought you’d be different.’</p><p>‘Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint.’ Billy lets out a long breath, runs a hand over his face. ‘I need to do this on my own, Maxine.’ He looks at her. ‘OK?’</p><p>‘No,’ she says. ‘But if you get over yourself, you know where to find me.’</p><p>‘Max.’</p><p>She looks down, fiddling with the skateboard. ‘I just want you to be OK.’</p><p>‘I will be,’ Billy says, and he doesn’t know if it’s a lie or not. Before Max can say anything else he nods at the skateboard and says, ‘Now your Barbies can skate too.’</p><p>‘I don’t have Barbies,’ Max scoffs. </p><p>Billy grins and reaches out to ruffle her hair. ‘Whatever you say, shitbird.’</p><p>Max glares but it’s a different kind of glare, now. ‘You’re a jerk,’ she says, and starts to shut her door. But she stops. ‘Maybe you could call Steve.’</p><p>‘<i>Max</i>.’</p><p>‘You seemed happier when you were hanging out with him.’</p><p>Billy looks up, breathing out through his nose. ‘If I call him will you keep your nose out of my business?’</p><p>‘Maybe.’</p><p>‘Then I’ll think about it.’</p><p>Max rolls her eyes but she says, ‘OK,’ and then, ‘Now, get lost,’ and shuts the door in Billy’s face with a huge grin.</p><p>Billy huffs out a laugh and goes back to his room.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The phone rings, shrill in Billy’s ear. He jiggles his knee, chewing on the corner of his thumbnail. He knows exactly what he’s going to say, but when a woman answers, his mind goes blank.<p>‘Hello,’ the woman says again when Billy doesn’t say anything.</p><p>‘Uh, hi,’ Billy says. ‘Mrs Harrington?’</p><p>‘Yes.’ A pause and then, ‘May I ask who’s calling?’</p><p>‘Billy.’ Billy swallows. ‘I’m a…friend of Steve’s.’ He licks his lips. ‘Is he at home?’</p><p>‘Yes, I’ll get him for you,’ Mrs Harrington says. </p><p>There’s a click as the receiver is set down somewhere and moments later, Steve says, ‘Billy?’</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘Didn’t think I’d hear from you again.’ His voice is flat and cold.</p><p>‘Your table wobbles.’</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>Billy scrubs a hand over his face. His cheeks are warm. ‘The other day when I fixed the chair, I noticed the table wobbled.’</p><p>‘OK?’</p><p>‘I can come over and fix it,’ he says.</p><p>‘You want to fix the table.’</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘I don’t know…’ Steve sighs. ‘Let me ask my mom.’ There’s a click again, the murmur of voices in the background, then Steve says, ‘You still there?’</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘She says that’s OK,’ Steve says, voice still closed and careful.</p><p>Billy lets out a long breath and says, ‘OK.’</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>The truck looks out of place in the Harringtons’ drive. Billy’s dad had let him borrow it, making sure Billy knew, in no uncertain terms, that he expected it back exactly as it left the house. But that’s the thing: it’s old and it’s beat up and it’s a truck.<p>Billy looks at it sitting alongside the perfectly trimmed shrubs and Steve’s BMW and, for the first time, feels out of place himself. For a moment he considers getting back in, driving around a while, or just going home. But he tells himself to stop being such a wuss, and stomps over to the porch. He takes a breath and rings the doorbell.</p><p>A woman opens the door, and Billy’s heart races. She looks like she’s stepped out of an episode of <i>Dynasty</i>. All shoulder pads and elegance. She would have been a fucking knockout when she was younger. She still is.</p><p>‘Hello,’ she says, voice tinted with amusement.</p><p>Billy’s mouth goes dry and he has to work his jaw to build up saliva so he can swallow. He’s been standing on the doorstep, mouth hanging open, like an idiot. This isn’t him. He doesn’t get flustered by moms. He forces his mouth into a grin and says, ‘Hi.’</p><p>‘You must be the boy who’s going to fix our wobbly table.’</p><p>‘Yes, ma’am,’ Billy says, ‘I’m the handyman.’ He adds a wink for good measure, then flushes when Mrs Harrington merely raises a perfectly plucked brow.</p><p>‘Hm.’ Mrs Harrington steps aside to let Billy in. He catches the scent of gardenias and hairspray as he passes her. It’s the same hairspray Steve uses. She folds her arms, long red nails tap-tap-tapping. ‘You’re very observant. I’ve never noticed a wobble.’</p><p>‘You really have to look for it.’</p><p>Mrs Harrington’s lips twitch. ‘I’m sure you do.’</p><p>Before Billy can say anything else, a deep voice calls out, ‘Veronica, do you know where my damn cufflinks are?’ and a man in an expensive grey suit comes down the stairs.</p><p>The guy—Steve’s dad, obviously—has thick dark hair, threaded with silver. He’s got Steve’s eyes and his bottom lip is sticking out in that same way Steve’s does when he’s annoyed or upset.</p><p>Billy’s stomach flips over. He wasn’t expecting to meet the whole fucking family.</p><p>‘They’re exactly where they always are,’ Mrs Harrington says and sweeps over to the stairs. ‘I’ll get them for you.’ She pauses and nods towards Billy. ‘This is Billy. He’s fixing our table.’</p><p>‘Is it broken?’ Mr Harrington asks with a frown.</p><p>‘It wobbles,’ Mrs Harrington says, still amused, and practically floats upstairs, sequinned dress winking in the soft light.</p><p>Mr Harrington looks over at Billy, dark eyes equally as shrewd as his wife’s, and Billy wonders if he’s been underestimating Steve.</p><p>‘Billy was it?’</p><p>‘Yes, sir.’</p><p>Mr Harrington raises a brow. ‘Is there a last name to go with it, or are you like one of those pop stars?’</p><p>‘Hargrove,’ Billy says, face warm. His palms are damp. He clenches his hand around his toolbox.</p><p>‘Hargrove,’ Mr Harrington repeats. ‘Do I know your father?’</p><p>‘I—’</p><p>And then Steve bounds down the stairs, breathless and hair damp. Billy’s stupid heart skips a beat.</p><p>‘Sorry,’ Steve says, ‘I was taking a shower.’ He leans over the railing and looks at his dad. ‘Mom says she found your cufflinks and if you don’t leave soon you’ll be late.’</p><p>‘Billy and I were talking,’ Mr Harrington says.</p><p>‘Um.’</p><p>‘My dad works in construction,’ Billy says, heat crawling up his neck. He juts his chin out and squares his shoulders. ‘You probably wouldn’t have met.’</p><p>‘It’s respectable work,’ Mr Harrington says, offhand.</p><p>‘Dad,’ Steve says.</p><p>‘Yes.’ There’s the slightest edge to Mr Harrington’s voice that anyone else would probably miss but Billy doesn’t. </p><p>‘Mom’s waiting?’</p><p>‘Right,’ Mr Harrington says. ‘Nice to meet you, Billy.’ And then he’s striding up the stairs. </p><p>‘Sorry about that,’ Steve says, coming over to Billy, ‘my dad can be…intense.’</p><p>‘Yeah.’ Faced with Steve, Billy is pretty certain coming over here was a stupid idea. But he’s not about to turn around and leave now.</p><p>‘So, do you wanna go do it?’</p><p>‘Huh?’</p><p>‘The table,’ Steve says, cheeks flushed, but lips tilted.</p><p>‘Yeah, sure,’ Billy says, and goes off in the direction of the dining room, steps more assured than he feels. This is not…he doesn’t do this. Not that he knows what he’s doing, anyway. Fuck.</p><p>Steve comes up beside him, leans one hand on the table. ‘You know, it doesn’t seem to wobble to me.’ He makes a point of pressing down. The table doesn’t budge.</p><p>Definitely underestimated him. ‘It was wobbling the other day.’</p><p>‘Right,’ Steve says. He leans back against the table, giving Billy a sidelong glance. ‘Maybe it fixed itself.’</p><p>Billy grunts and opens his toolbox, pretending he’s looking for something.</p><p>Steve crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Why did you really call?’</p><p>‘I told you—’</p><p>‘Don’t.’ Steve shakes his head. ‘Just…don’t.’</p><p>Irritation has been simmering in Billy’s veins since he stepped foot into the house and he knows it’s going to boil over into full-blown rage. Any second now. </p><p>And then Mrs Harrington sweeps into the room, saying, ‘We’re leaving now, darling. We’ll be home late,’ and Billy does his best to keep a lid on it.</p><p>‘OK,’ Steve says. </p><p>Mrs Harrington turns around, arms out to either side, and says, ‘How do I look?’</p><p>‘You look nice, Mom,’ Steve says, casting Billy an embarrassed glance.</p><p>‘Only nice?’</p><p>Colour seeps into Steve’s cheeks. ‘You look great.’</p><p>Mrs Harrington smiles, completely dazzling, and says, ‘My sweet boy, always flattering your dear old mother,’ and presses a kiss to Steve’s face. It leaves a wine-coloured lipstick stain on his cheek.</p><p>Steve rolls his eyes, hunching in on himself, but he’s smiling.</p><p>The way Mrs Harrington looks at Steve makes something twist tight in Billy’s chest. </p><p>She smiles over at Billy and says, ‘Thank you again for fixing the table,’ amber eyes twinkling and then she leaves.</p><p>This fucking family.</p><p>‘Sorry,’ Steve says.</p><p>Billy doesn’t know what he’s apologising for so he only shrugs. He can’t stop staring at the lipstick on Steve’s face. It makes his stomach turn and before he thinks better of it, he reaches out and wipes at it with his thumb, fingers curling behind Steve’s jaw. </p><p>Steve’s eyes go wide and his breath hitches. ‘Billy—’</p><p>Billy surges forward, catching Steve’s mouth with his own. Sliding his tongue past Steve’s lips.</p><p>Steve moans into his mouth, hands at Billy’s waist. Holding him tight.</p><p>It’s hard to pretend that Billy hasn’t missed this. Hasn’t dreamt about this every day since he walked out of Steve’s room. But Steve is <i>leaving</i>—</p><p>‘Fuck.’ Billy jerks back, grabbing his toolbox. ‘I shouldn’t— I’m going.’ He walks toward the door, lips burning.</p><p>Behind him, Steve says, ‘Yeah, you’re good at that.’</p><p>Billy freezes. Wheels around. ‘What?’</p><p>‘You’re good at leaving,’ Steve says, that coldness seeping back into his voice, even as it cracks.</p><p>‘<i>I’m</i> good at leaving?’ Billy scoffs. ‘You’re the one who…’ He clamps his jaw. ‘I wish I could fucking leave.’</p><p>‘I’m not stopping you.’</p><p>‘Good,’ Billy says and turns back around. His legs don’t feel as steady as they did before.</p><p>Footsteps follows him and a hand curls around his elbow and Steve says, ‘Wait.’</p><p>‘Thought you weren’t stopping me.’</p><p>‘I—’ Steve’s hand slides down to Billy’s wrist. ‘I changed my mind.’</p><p>‘Why?’ When Steve doesn’t answer, Billy says, ‘Why does it matter if I stay or go? It’s not like you care.’</p><p>‘What does that mean?’</p><p>Everything Billy has kept inside spews right out of him. ‘It means you’re moving away with your little girlfriend and you can just talk about it like it’s no big deal.’ Like <i>they’re</i> no big deal. ‘And I’m fucking stuck here.’</p><p>Steve blinks. ‘OK, wow.’ He runs a hand over his face and then he fucking laughs.</p><p>‘Oh, yeah, it’s fucking hilarious.’</p><p>‘No, Billy, it’s not funny.’ Steve sighs. ‘If you’d let me keep talking, the other day…’ He looks down.</p><p>‘Would it have made any difference?’</p><p>‘I hope so.’ Steve chews his lip. ‘I—’</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>‘I was going to ask you to come with us!’ Steve ducks his gaze. ‘With me.’</p><p>And Billy wasn’t expecting Steve to say that. He doesn’t know what to do with it and he blurts out, ‘Why?’</p><p>‘What do you mean “why”?’ Steve frowns. ‘Why do you think?’ When Billy only gives a small shake of his head, Steve says, ‘I know it’s a lot. Too fast or whatever, but—’ He looks Billy in the eye then. ‘I don’t want to leave Hawkins without you.’</p><p>The words echo in Billy’s head, make his ears ring.</p><p>He has to say something. Anything. But he can’t. The toolbox slides from his hand, landing with a crash that makes Steve jump. But Billy still can’t say anything. </p><p>‘It’s a dumb idea,’ Steve eventually says, ‘forget it.’</p><p>‘No.’</p><p>‘No you don’t want to forget it, or—’</p><p>And Billy can’t let Steve finish that, so he kisses him again, hands cradling Steve’s jaw. Billy’s not going to run away this time. </p><p>When they break apart, Steve looks at Billy and says, ‘Does that mean you want to come with me?’ He licks his lips. ‘Or was that a goodbye kiss?’</p><p>‘Not a goodbye kiss.’</p><p>Steve worries his bottom lip. ‘You know I want to live <i>with</i> you, right? Like as a…couple.’</p><p>Billy huffs. ‘Yeah, I got that.’</p><p>‘OK.’ Steve is smiling now, but it’s tentative. He takes Billy’s hand and laces their fingers together. ‘So we’re doing this?’</p><p>‘Yeah,’ Billy says, and he’s smiling too, ‘why not?’</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—</p>
</div>Billy sorts the broken pieces of the chair he’d been making for Steve. Some of them are damaged beyond use, but most can be salvaged.<p>He’s not sure what he’s going to make, yet. Maybe something they can use in the place they get in California. Or maybe something else. It doesn’t matter. It’s not about what it’s going to be.</p><p>Billy gets that now.</p><p>The wood is all laid out before him, and Billy smiles.</p><p>He picks up the biggest piece and starts.</p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And when Robin and Steve and Billy move to California, Billy starts making surfboards and eventually opens up his own surf shop.</p><p>Thanks for reading! :) I have a moodboard for the fic <a href="https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/611432581421989888/tougher-than-the-rest-for-buildyourwalls-m">over here on Tumblr</a></p><p>Title from the Bruce Springsteen song of the same name because it’s a great song and it also sounds like the slogan for a hardware store or something like that. Haha.</p><p>So, I think Mrs Harrington has had a brief appearance in one of my fics before but I’ve never written Mr Harrington. Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s annoying to know someone’s face casts because it can take away your own imagination, but in case anyone is curious, I picture Lesley Fera as Mrs Harrington and Dermot Mulroney as Mr Harrington. (Also, she doesn’t show up in this fic, but I decided Anouk Aimee is Steve’s grandma, but I didn’t decide on paternal or maternal lol). <a href="https://imgur.com/a/XXyo2Ud">Pictures if you don’t know who they are.</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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